


More Than I Hoped For

by MakeTheMoon



Category: Actor RPF, Star Trek RPF
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Character Death, Is it pining if the other person is dead?, M/M, V. somber
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-12
Updated: 2021-02-20
Packaged: 2021-03-18 09:41:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 18,998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29366442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MakeTheMoon/pseuds/MakeTheMoon
Summary: Chris's house burns down with him in it, ruled an accident. Zach makes a realization far too late, and, years later, finds himself filming in a small town with (metaphorical) ghosts of Chris everywhere.
Relationships: Chris Pine/Zachary Quinto
Comments: 11
Kudos: 19





	1. There Would Still Be Music Left to Write

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is finished and edited and will be fully posted within a week or so. Lyrics and titles shamelessly stolen from The Longest Time by Billy Joel.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _You always regret the things you didn’t do, rather than the things you did do, he supposes._

_If you said goodbye to me tonight_ ** _  
_** ** _There would still be music left to write_** **  
** _What else could I do?_  
  
  
  
  
Zach feels like they’re cursed, a bit - the whole production. First Leonard, then little Anton, then David the camera operator who always made them laugh when the takes were getting rough, and now-  
  
Well.   
  
He tugs at his tie, loosens it enough to dissipate the mild claustrophobia, and flops onto his couch. He doesn’t do anything else but wait. Doesn’t look at his phone, doesn’t text Zoe to make sure she’s on the way, doesn’t turn the TV on. Stares at the floor in the quiet, listening to each creak and pop his house makes. He doesn’t think it’s ever been this quiet here.   
  
The thoughts inside his head are just about to the yelling stage again when Zoe sneaks in. She’s got her family trailing behind her, and while she doesn’t chase the somber away, at least she’s something else to think about. Her boys are - and have been - remarkably quiet. He thinks they’re too young to really understand, but it hits him then that the twins are the same age he was when his father died. He definitely understood that, so maybe he’s just not giving them enough credit.   
  
The door creaks open again, John shuffling inside and doing a little finger wave as Zoe scoots in on the couch and scoops Zach into her arms. He’s cried out at this point. He’s a bit numb, actually, if he’s honest with himself. He doesn’t sniffle, his breath doesn’t catch, no tears form. She’s squeezing him so hard there’s going to be fingerprints on his bicep; he rests his head on hers and grips her elbow.   
  
His house fills quickly once the seal is broken by Zoe, and before he knows it the living room and kitchen are full of life; some laughter, some alcohol, a lot of crying. A _lot_ of crying. The ambiance swings drastically from jovial - stories about Chris and how ridiculous he was, and for _some_ reason every hug features one participant's ass sticking out - to downright dark. Both feel right. He doesn’t feel guilty about laughing or calling Chris an asshole, and he doesn’t feel guilty when he suddenly thinks about all their late night phone calls from across the country and has to excuse himself from the kitchen island to pull it together again.   
  
After hosting everyone, and the last people trailing out just before midnight, he hopes it’ll finally tire him out. He’s been awake for nearly four days, he thought he’d crash after the service, once all the official stuff was over. The night of the accident he spent wide awake and frightened at the end of the street, watching the flames turn to smoldering land to ash and dust from nearly a mile away. He got back home at noon the next day, hours after being questioned and waiting to hear from Robert - the cops wouldn’t tell Zach anything. He’s just a coworker-turned-friend, after all. He hadn’t cried all night - kept Gwynne in his arms, both of them numb and shivering despite it being July in Los Angeles. Her tears never stopped while his never started.   
  
The following two nights he stayed awake on purpose. What kind of dreams would he have if he let himself crawl into his bed and go to sleep? So he smoked, first, something to keep him up and motivated. He cleaned the entire house, then when the sun rose he went outside to weed the garden. Chris had taught him the proper way to do that, and Zach alternated between anger and gratitude the whole day.   
  
He had managed to nap here and there, thirty minutes on the couch, twenty minutes at Katie’s dining table. He’d woken up there with a start and an apology ready to go, but had found the curtains drawn and a small blanket thrown over his shoulders. She tiptoed back through the doorway ten minutes later with coffee and cigarettes, her finger to her lips, and led him to the patio and around the corner. “I’m not supposed to have these,” she’d said. “They were Chris’s, actually. I stole them from him a few months ago in another failed attempt at getting him to quit. I’m… not exactly sure why I didn’t throw them out.” She’d stared hard straight ahead for a moment and then her eyes had filled with tears and she’d crumpled. Zach was relieved to get to play the part of the put-together one for a little while as they sat on the grass in the shade. He’d let her sob and scream and get frustrated with herself, and they’d finished the pack of cigarettes, and giggled about how they weren’t going to get away with anything with the smell of the smoke so strong on their clothes.   
  
And now, he lays in bed listening to River snore at his feet and the tick of the clock in the living room. He tries, really - he meditates, he finds a quiet podcast, he plays music. He watches the sun rise regardless, creeping through the blinds.   
  
He rolls out of bed and Facetimes Joe who answers with, “You look like shit, bro,” and then, “You want to come over? I’ve got coffee and cigarettes and, like, a yoga mat.” So he pulls on pants and sneakers and drives to Joe’s and spends the day helping to paint a mural on the inside of his fence.   
  
It takes three more days, finally, for him to really crash. He’s trying to watch a movie on the classic film channel, _The Ghost Goes Wild,_ of all things, when he nods off and doesn’t wake up for four hours. When he does wake up, the house is dark and quiet and creepy. The TV is off, which he has no recollection of doing, and River is nowhere to be found. He sits up and presses the heels of his hands into his eyes, sighing into the quiet. He hears a shuffle under the sound of his own loud breath and turns his head to the right, jolting up from the couch and clutching his chest when he sees someone sitting in the recliner in the corner.   
  
Hysterical laughter bubbles in his chest when he flicks the light on. Chris’s black cardigan, that he’d left there weeks ago, is thrown over the back of the recliner. So, maybe no more classical horror movies in the middle of the night while he’s still mourning. Maybe especially not any movies with Chris’s grandmother in them.   
  
Aside from the rude awakening, he does feel better after getting some sleep. He grabs a glass of water, gets in bed, and sleeps some more, and when he wakes the sun is already up. He sneaks into the living room, eyeing the chair, and ignores the shiver that goes down his spine.   
  
He does stop watching horror movies at night, campy or otherwise.   
  
  
\--   
  
  
There’s something different about it, with Chris. After Zach’s dad died, he dreamt about him and he cried and he got angry. After Anton, he was just… sad. Sad that such a young life had been taken in such a horrifying way. With Chris, though, there are all of those things, and also something that feels awfully hollow. He puts it down to Chris’s age, then he puts it down to the amount of time they’d spent together, then he categorizes them as platonic soulmates, and then, eventually, after discussing it with his therapist and Zoe and even Katie that one time, he has to admit that it’s because he loved him. Loves him. Always will, he guesses, based on how his heart still clenches in his chest when someone says Chris’s name or he flicks past one of his movies on TV and sees his face.   
  
It hasn’t gotten better, either. He still feels exactly the same way. He’s frustrated that he’s never dreamt about him - as a kid, the dreams were often enough to feel like he’d had a conversation with his dad; it felt like scratching an itch. But Chris just doesn’t come to him, and no matter how much Zach tells himself that it’s ridiculous and reminds himself that he doesn’t even believe in an afterlife, he gets angry at Chris every time he thinks about it.   
  
He’s never been able to stop himself from wondering what Chris would have said if Zach had ever divulged that particular piece of information. Chris was straight, according to Zach’s definition, but he was always curious about himself and the world around him. Chris also never actually uttered the word _straight_ in relation to himself, as far as Zach could remember, which is a fact that Zach isn’t aware of until it’s far too late. You always regret the things you didn’t do, rather than the things you did do, he supposes.   
  
  
\--   
  
  
Moving on comes in waves. Emotions ebb and flow and because of that, Zach had retired from acting. It’s hard enough trying to control his thoughts as it is, and he really doesn’t want to have to do it for his job, too. He moves full time into an office to work more on production - signing paperwork, scouting talent, having meetings. He’s perfectly content here, surprising even himself when he realises it.   
  
He knows that it’s become obvious that Chris’s death and Zach disappearing from the screen are connected, and while the websites and magazines move on pretty quickly from those particular stories, the fans make it known that they miss him. Most of them are sweet about it, like the three girls he met in New York a couple years after the fire. One of them had pulled out a pouch from her backpack, divided into three sections, each with different coloured stones. She scooped out a few of the cooler shades and picked a clear, blue-tinted, crystal-like stone. It was oval and smooth all the way around, with a barely noticeable divot on one side.   
  
“It’s a worry stone, or a soothing stone. I make them and sell them on etsy,” she said. She handed him a business card as well. “You can turn it into jewelry if you want, or just leave it as is. I hope it helps.”   
  
Zach had walked away from that interaction more confused than anything. They hadn’t talked about much other than the fact that they missed seeing him on TV, and the whole conversation had been upbeat and positive, Zach having learned pretty quickly how to avoid certain topics and keep his voice light in these situations. She must have assumed that at some point he would come back to acting, some later time when he was no longer mourning. He didn’t have the heart to tell her that he didn’t think that would happen, no matter how well he moved on. He was happy with the decisions he’d made about his career and didn’t plan on rocking the boat much further.   
  
Of course, Zach’s agent spends an inordinate amount of time and money trying to get him back into something on-screen. A year after almost telling those girls they’d never see him again, his agent’s final argument is that a friend of a friend wrote something that he would be perfect for, and that he was who they specifically had in mind while writing it. It was literally written _for_ him. It’ll get him away from the city, she says - both LA and New York - and send him to the absolute Middle of Nowhere, Texas.   
  
He hems and haws about it, and talks it over with Patrick and his therapist. It should be good for him. Everyone else seems to think so, anyway. He’s not 100% convinced, but it’s a small-budget, big-heart story, and he’s not going to get a better opportunity if he turns this down.


	2. That's Where You Found Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Zach’s rummaging through his wallet when he hears it, a bright, quick laugh and there’s no doubt. He doesn’t think 'hm, that sounds familiar,' or 'man, who does that sound like?' He instantly thinks of Chris._

**_That’s where you found me  
_ ** _When you put your arms around me_ _  
_ _I haven’t been there for the longest time  
  
  
_   
  
Rehearsals are in August, so Zach flies out and spends some extra time there. He finds a cool, retro restaurant 25 minutes away from set, and a river with rocks on the shore big enough to lay flat on in the middle of the woods that he makes good use of on more stressful days. His therapist would be proud. No cell service this far out, that’s for sure.   
  
One early morning, long before the sun has risen, Zach’s at the counter of a gas station on a dark, deserted highway in Texas, mostly still asleep with a car and a driver waiting patiently for him in the parking lot. He’s on his way to the airport, back to LA for meetings before filming officially starts in the fall. Zach’s rummaging through his wallet when he hears it, a bright, quick laugh and there’s no doubt. He doesn’t think _hm, that sounds familiar_ , or _man, who does that sound like_ ? He instantly thinks of Chris, and he turns his head, expecting to see him standing at the back of the store, but there’s no one there except a young kid mopping the floor, a guy looking aimlessly into the beer fridge, and an empty hallway with a flickering fluorescent light. He feels the hair on his arms raise as he finishes paying and jogs back to the car.   
  
When he lands back in LA he calls Patrick and circles around the question for a bit before blurting out, “Have you ever thought you’ve seen Chris somewhere? Like, since he died.”   
  
Patrick says he could have swore he saw Chris at a Whole Foods right before Christmas the year he died. It was a guy who walked like him, wore the same type of clothes and hat, same height, but when he turned around it was all wrong - dark brown eyes, thick black beard, completely different face. Obviously not Chris. Of course it wouldn’t have been, but Patrick sighs into the phone and says, “I was still a little hopeful, you know?”   
  
He does know. At least now he knows he’s not going totally crazy. A few other friends have similar stories, and the more Zach thinks about it, the more memories he has of the same thing happening after other close deaths. He thought he saw Leonard twice the year after he died. It feels different this time, but then, everything with Chris feels different; has always felt different.   
  
  
\--   
  
  
October passes in a blur. Filming always seems to pass quickly, even with all the downtime throughout the day. They’ve put the cast up in row-housing on the edge of town, so the time not spent on set is often spent all together anyway, and it feels a little like Trek. They all bond quickly, and get along well, and read into each other a bit too much, which makes for great takes on set.   
  
They get a mid-filming break in early November and Zach decides to stay in town. Most of the others fly out to visit family for early Thanksgiving celebrations, so he’ll have the place to himself - the apartment, the town.   
  
He explores some more. Finds a great record store, though he doesn’t have his record player here. He still buys at least one album every time he steps inside, like there’s some spell put on the place. There’s a trail to a nature park boasting how many deer you’ll see on the sign at the entrance. He spots no deer, but he does get a great sunset out of it, and photos of the sunrise two days later.   
  
He also finds a different grocery store, a little ways out of town, one with more of his favourite things. Every day he drops in to pick up fresh veggies to make something new for dinner - a nice change of pace from the frozen foods and takeout and catered meals on set.   
  
Standing in the produce section trying to decide what exactly he wants to eat, a man’s voice carries from a couple aisles over in the middle of a sentence. Zach’s eyes snap to him, once again so sure - like he was in the gas station - that Chris is going to be standing there, right next to the carrots. But it’s just what looks to be a couple, two men leaning together, joking about something and laughing. Neither of them are Chris.   
  
Obviously.   
  
Zach drops his pear back into the pile and pretends he’s not glancing at these two guys. They’re cute, and Zach has to pull back his smile. He’s proud of men like that, living in towns like this.   
  
The one guy, though, looks like he could have been Chris in some alternate universe. Zach lets himself look for a bit too long, maybe just this side of polite and likely not as surreptitious as he thinks - the guy is wearing a baseball cap that’s pushing his hair down into his eyes and around the back of his neck, and a pair of sunglasses are sliding down his nose. Zach’s pretty sure he’s never seen Chris wear anything like what this guy is wearing, a bright tank top and khakis. It looks more like something Zach would have worn once upon a time. He’s skinnier than Chris had been for the last few years, but his build is similar nonetheless. Tall, broad shoulders, defined arms, narrow hips. He’s also got a giant beard. Completely salt and pepper, it’s long but trimmed and styled, and he looks like every middle-aged, crossfitting gay man that Zach has ever seen.   
  
His partner looks maybe a little younger but could very well be the same age, and is dressed more conservatively. His hair is relatively short, buzzed on the sides, a little longer on top - also a look Zach has rocked a few times in the past. He’s clean shaven, and decently shorter than the first guy. He looks a bit familiar. Zach thinks about it for a minute, glancing back and forth between the apples and the men. He looks like a guy that works for the catering company on set. He’s only seen him once, he thinks, but by the time Zach ducks away around the corner he’s fairly certain it’s him. Maybe that’s why the voice was familiar. Maybe it wasn’t Chris that Zach thought he was hearing at all, it was just a familiar voice that his brain placed incorrectly. He’ll go with that for now, for his own sanity.   
  
\--   
  
  
People say that the first year after someone dies is the hardest, because it’s full of firsts - their birthday without them, the first Christmas without them, the anniversary of the day of their death. It is true, but there are days, the more that time goes on, that are so much worse than any day that first year.   
  
The first year at least you can be prepared. It’s hard, balancing the opposing emotions. You want to celebrate what they gave you and mourn the loss of them, and that first year is full of days like that, and it can change in an instant. You could be completely fine one minute and a broken mess the next. Three years on, though, Zach finds that he’s functional for months at a time and something mundane will trigger a memory that makes him fall down a rabbit hole of memories and emotions. Those days he can barely behave like a real human. Sometimes he’s lucky enough that they land on his days off, but the days he’s working are the worst. He’s asked over and over if he’s okay, or if he wants to go home, or if he needs anything. He zones out and forgets lines and is, frankly, completely unprofessional. He’s grateful that this crew knows him so well, because he knows there are directors who would have him cut at the first instance of incompetency.   
  
It’s not his fault that he’d flubbed his line and Alex, all blue eyes and square jaw, dropped his head to his forefinger and thumb, rubbing his brow, and grinned so wide Zach could see the lines at the corners of his eyes even in the low light. He’d looked so much like Chris that it was all Zach could do not to scoop him into a crushing hug. Every time he looked at Alex for the rest of the day, all he saw was Chris.   
  
What is he supposed to say? “Oh, sorry, someone looked like the love of my life for a split second, and oh yeah, he died years ago in a tragic accident before I _realised_ he was the love of my life. Let’s move along.” For the most part, they all know who he is and how close he was with Chris, but it’s not exactly something at the forefront of anyone’s mind other than Zach’s.   
  
And that’s just it. Chris is always at the forefront of his mind, so any little thing can cause the dominoes to fall and he’s left with nothing but heartbreak and regret.   
  
He grabs takeout on the way home and locks himself away in his room like a moody teenager until he falls asleep listening to his playlist titled “ _Classics,_ ” but is actually 76 songs that remind him of Chris.   
  
\--   
  
Thanksgiving sneaks up on them, and the whole week is exceptionally busy. They get through the work, late nights and annoyingly early mornings, and decide to do their own Thanksgiving dinner on the weekend to unwind. Zach gets everything they need on Friday, late at night, and on Saturday Teddy is yelling at him that he forgot the sour cream for the mashed potatoes and pushing him out the door, Zach laughing and yelling that he’s got to at least take a jacket. He’s back at the store by noon.   
  
This time of year it’s busy, with Black Friday sales - who the heck needs seven full frozen chickens, anyway? - and Christmas shopping, and, he supposes, people celebrating Thanksgiving a few days late like he is.   
  
He meanders through the store, enjoying the hustle and bustle and Christmas music, silently mocking the groups of people fighting their way to the shelf they need until he spots the dairy section and how empty it seems to be. He picks up the pace, shoulders past a group of women talking, and reaches for the sour cream. He’s stopped in his tracks, hand suspended in front of his face, by the sound of his name in Chris’s voice.   
  
He’s going crazy. He has to be. He almost doesn’t turn around, tells himself he’s hallucinating, but he has to, compelled to without his own permission.   
  
There’s no one there, of course. Just a bunch of people milling back and forth at the end of the aisle, none of them familiar, none of them paying him any attention.   
  
Shaking himself out, he ducks his head and gets to the express lane as quickly as he can. His head is swimming, and it’s stupid; he’s starting to think he’s hearing ghosts. In the car on the way back he blasts the sound of Chris’s voice out of his head with music and pretends he doesn’t want to cry.   
  
After that, he holes himself up. He does his job, gets up and goes to work, but otherwise steers clear of the public. He doesn’t visit that grocery store again, and he only goes out if he absolutely needs to. He vows to see his therapist as soon as he gets home, and he’s itching to get back to his regular life, to his Chris-less existence. He never thought he’d feel that way.   
  
  
\--   
  
  
Through all of this, no matter how weird or wonderful life gets, he never forgets to call Gwynne and Robert, and they seem to have a sixth sense for when he’s feeling particularly maudlin, because they tend to call him soon after having one of those days.   
  
The phone calls are casual and often cut short by work or errands, but over time they’ve all come to need the connection, short as it may be, and they’ve cultivated a familial relationship. He talks to Gwynne almost as often as he speaks to his own mom, and gets just as much emotional support from her. She’s become like a second mom. This doesn’t help the frequent fantasies about Chris still being alive; him and Zach getting together and getting married and living happily ever after, with Gwynne and Robert as the in-laws he actually gets along with, checking in with them often and having a normal life; Christmases, birthdays, Sunday dinners, summer barbecues.   
  
They promise to meet before Christmas this year, sometime after Zach gets back from filming, for their gift exchange. He’s particularly excited this year because he’s found some vintage model cars for Katie’s kids at a garage sale, the type of thing you’d never find anywhere else. It’s been a long time since he’s been this excited to see someone’s face opening a gift from him.   
  
He always feels better after their phone calls, like a part of him has spoken to a part of Chris; calmness seeps in and settles him quickly after those phone calls, no matter how mundane.   
  
  
\--   
  
  
Surprisingly, Joe takes up most of his call and text time. Even when Zach was living in New York Joe never called him as often as this, and Zach’s about to start asking if he’s having marital problems and needs a shoulder to cry on. They’re in the middle of a conversation about an old recipe their grandmother used to make, arguing over whether she did or did not put cayenne pepper in it.   
  
“I’m telling you, she hated cayenne pepper in everything. There’s no way she would have used it,” Zach says, browsing through a cookbook that he’d found amongst the bookshelves in the living room.   
  
“And I’m telling you that I know that, but I have this memory of seeing her using it and being shocked and she made me swear I wouldn’t tell anyone.” There are sounds of dinner being made on Joe’s end of the line, a wooden spoon being tapped on a pot and a range fan whirring close by.   
  
“That was a dream. Obviously. Also, you’re bad at keeping secrets. Why are you telling me if she told you not to tell anyone? You’re breaking promises to Nana, even though it never happened.”   
  
Joe ignores the insult and says, “I don’t think so, man. It’s too vivid to have been a dream. I mean, you’d know if it was missing, right? Cayenne is pretty distinct, is it not?”   
  
“Oh, uh. I don’t know. Maybe?”   
  
“Really? I thought Chris always really loved cayenne, I figured you’d be able to tell.”   
  
Oh. “No, I don’t know. I don’t think so.” He’s almost positive Chris hated cayenne, actually, but he’s not ready to admit that to Joe. “I have no idea, to be honest. How often do you think I cooked with Chris?” Zach closes the recipe book and crosses his legs on the couch, bracing himself for whatever is about to come out of Joe’s mouth.   
  
“Often enough, you were practically married for a few years there. Come on, if _I_ know that Chris loved cayenne, there’s no way you don’t.”   
  
“We were not ‘practically married,’ Joe, give it a rest. My life doesn’t revolve around Chris- didn’t.” He inwardly sighs at the mistake.   
  
“Really,” Joe repeats.   
  
“I’ll have you know I haven’t even thought about him in, like… days. At least.” He glances at his calendar and nods to himself. Something like that.   
  
“You’ll forgive me if I think that’s a load of bullshit, Zachary, but anyway, that’s not the point. The point was that I’m sure Nana used to put cayenne pepper in her special chicken sauce, so you should just get over it and add some. Case closed.”   
  
Zach sighs. “You’re insufferable.”   
  
Zach doesn’t think his life revolves - or revolved - around Chris, but after that conversation he makes a point of picking up a hobby and at least pretending that everything in his life doesn’t remind him of Chris.


	3. Maybe I've Been Hoping Too Hard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _He opens his mouth a couple times like he’s about to say something, and Zach wonders if this guy is about to ask him to join him and his boyfriend or something equally inappropriate when he finally speaks._

_ Maybe this won't last very long  
B _ _ ut you feel so right and I could be wrong  
_ **_Maybe I've been hoping too hard_ ** **_  
_ ** **_  
_ ** ****

  
  
Filming ends on December 11th, and the wrap party is scheduled for December 13th. He’s successfully avoided any more Chris-like voices since Thanksgiving, and decides to celebrate the thread that his sanity is hanging on by just as much as he celebrates the end of filming. At this point, he’s just glad the voices haven’t followed him into the apartment. He might go fully mad if he woke up to Chris telling him good morning, or asking for the remote.    
  
The party is at the house of one of the writers - they’d written the story about their own town, so it had only made sense to film right here in their backyard. Downstairs there’s a bar and a giant TV playing a hockey game, which most people congregate around. It’s so different to the lofty, industrial studios of New York, or the bright poolside gardens of Los Angeles. It’s all dark wood and red brick, glass cabinets and kegs; some people would call it cozy, or southern chic, but Zach just feels claustrophobic, so he slips in and out, between the bar and upstairs in the kitchen where the conversation is more subdued and he can watch the sunset through the trees.   
  
Someone beckons him out onto the patio to show him the backyard, which is lit up in Christmas lights nearly all the way down to a dock on the lake. If he thinks about it, his rocks by the river aren’t too far from here. He could probably walk there and back tonight and no one would notice.   
  
Around midnight, he’s kicking himself for not bringing any smokes, but he goes outside into the quiet anyway, breathing the fresh air. That’s something you don’t get in either city; between the smog and the garbage, the smell of soil and decaying leaves is hard to come by. He finds the picnic table near the dock and sits, clicking on his phone and taking some pictures of the reflections of the lights on the water. It’s a calm night, the lake like glass, and at this angle he can follow the rows of lights all the way up to the house in the reflection.   
  
Over the sound of the music and shouting drifting down from the house, the grass and leaves crunch under someone’s feet as they walk up and Zach turns, shit-eating grin ready to go, to take a photo of them. He assumes it’s Teddy, who had pointed out the picnic table earlier and promised to join him, but when he turns around it’s definitely not Teddy. The guy huffs out a quiet laugh as Zach quickly puts his phone down and mumbles, “Sorry. Thought you were someone else.”   
  
“S’okay,” he says, under his breath. He shuffles from one foot to the other, and Zach raises his eyebrows. It takes him a minute to place him, but he recognizes him as the man from the grocery store. The same company that catered them on set also catered the party and were invited to stay, so he must be that guy’s plus one.   
  
He opens his mouth a couple times like he’s about to say something, and Zach wonders if this guy is about to ask him to join him and his boyfriend or something equally inappropriate when he finally speaks.   
  
It’s barely a whisper, he’d hardly categorize it as a word it’s so quiet, yet it’s unmistakable.   
  
“Zach?”   
  
And Zach… freezes. His blood runs cold. His fingers go numb. His lungs stop working. And he just stares at this guy. The guy who’s with one of the guys from catering. The guy he saw at the grocery store, the guy who has a laugh like Chris’s, the guy who knows his name.   
  
It’s dark out, by now, the sun has long since set, and the Christmas lights don’t come all the way down here, but he looks back up into this man’s face and sees the crystal clear blue of his eyes reflecting the moonlight.   
  
His fingernails dig crescents into the palm of his hand as he stands, legs shaky, and he feels stupid,  _ so  _ stupid, because this guy is just a dude from Texas, but he knows Zach’s name, and his eyes are identical to Chris’s, and Zach just wants to touch. He wants to punch and hug, too, but he settles for wrapping his thumb and middle finger around this guy’s wrist and gripping as hard as he can. Zach wants to ask who he is, how he knows him, where he came from. He has the hysterical thought to ask him if he’s a ghost or a spirit, but in the back of his head a voice stops him from asking any of these things because…   
  
Because he’s just a guy from some nowhere town in Texas, right?   
  
But then this guy clears his throat, and it’s Chris, and his breath hitches, and it’s Chris, and he says, a little louder this time, “Zach,” and it’s  _ Chris _ .   
  
No matter how impossible.   
  
Zach says, watery and whispered, “You’re supposed to be dead.”   
  
Chris scoffs a sad, quiet laugh, and it’s such a Chris sound that Zach chokes out a sob and drops his head into his free hand to wipe at his eyes, never letting go of the wrist in the circle of his fingers.   
  
“Yeah,” Chris says. “Sorry about that.” Then he takes one long step and clutches at Zach’s back, encircling him completely and he still feels like Chris, too. It’s easier to get his arms all the way around him, but it’s still his stupid silly hug, and it’s still warm, and when Zach grabs at his back and bunches his shirt in his fists, Chris still holds tighter like he has countless times before.   
  
They stand there for a long time. Minutes. Quietly swaying and sniffling, and Chris has tucked his face into Zach’s neck and Zach shivers with every breath - so  _ alive _ \- that washes across his collarbone.   
  
Zach steps back to look at him, take in his features. His grey beard and long hair, more lines on his forehead and around his eyes, but so obviously Chris that he’s kicking himself that he didn’t really see it that day in the produce section, sunglasses and hat be damned.   
  
“Chris, I can’t-”   
  
“Leo, actually,” he says. And then he squints and curls his mouth up in mild disgust and he looks exactly the same, like nothing is different, like nothing has changed. Like three years haven’t passed in which Zach -  _ everyone _ \- thought he was dead.   
  
“... Leo…” Zach repeats.   
  
Chris sighs and says, “Yeah, it’s, uh… it’s a  _ very _ long story.”   
  
“You sound so southern,” Zach says, and then covers his face with his palm. “Why is that the first thing out of my mouth?”   
  
The crinkles around Chris’s eyes when he laughs cause Zach’s stomach to clench when he looks directly at him. Chris says, “I’m sorry, Zach. I’m  _ so _ sorry. I never wanted… this- any of it, I promise.”   
  
Zach feels his heartbeat, still racing, and his sweaty palms, and the drying tears on his face, and there’s not much he can think to do but to kiss him. He bunches the front of Chris’s shirt and pulls him in, pressing his open mouth to Chris’s closed one, revels in the soft “mmph” from Chris. When Chris just drags him closer and wraps his arms around him again, raking his nails through the hair on the back of Zach’s neck, Zach lets the rest of the tears fall, tips his forehead against Chris’s, and cries.   
  
  
\--   
  
  
They don’t speak much in the car on the way to Zach’s apartment. It’s not awkward, but it is weird for them. Chris and Zach in a car together were never quiet, between arguments about Russian poetry, to belting showtunes or black metal, to scrambling to remember lines. He’s glad that his one roommate has already gone home, though, when he opens the door to a quiet house. He can do quiet for a while if it gives him Chris.   
  
Flicking the lamp and the electric fireplace on, he gestures to the couch and watches Chris as he falls onto it, slumping low with his legs splayed wide - all exactly the same as it always was. He gets Chris a beer, and finds himself staring at the back of his head from the kitchen. He leans off the couch and plugs in the lights on the Christmas tree and flops back into the cushions. Zach can imagine the content smile on his face, has seen it so many times before it’s like it’s burned into his memory - Chris in front of a Christmas tree or fireplace or under mistletoe, and he always looked happiest in those moments. Zach pinches himself on the thigh, then immediately feels silly for doing it, but then remembers that his best friend, probably the love of his life, who was dead not thirty minutes ago is currently sitting on his couch in an apartment thousands of miles away from either of their homes. He’s entitled to a cursory pinch, he thinks.   
  
He intends to give Chris some room to breathe but when Zach gets there he sits right next to him, thighs pushed together, and drops his head back against the couch. When he peeks over, Chris is grinning at him around the neck of his beer bottle before he leans over and presses a kiss to Zach’s temple.   
  
“I don’t know what to do, here,” Zach says. “I mean. I’ve spent years thinking about all the things I wanted to say to you. Things I wanted to tell you about my life - Joe has a kid now, did you know? - or things I wanted to yell at you when I was angry, or… or just little things, like that cafe in the bookstore that we always went to is closed. I thought you’d hate that, and I wanted  _ so badly _ to be able to call you and listen to you rant about the death of small business even though I always tell you it’s all in your head and that there are so many more small businesses these days than there ever were, we just have to go find them, you know?”   
  
He doesn’t think he’ll ever stop crying, but at least Chris hasn’t either. When Zach looks up at him his eyes are wet and bloodshot. “I went to the shelter, god, like a year and a half ago, and saw a dog that looked just like Noah. I had my phone out, a picture taken, and was looking for our texts before I remembered. I almost adopted him, actually, but when I went back someone had gotten to him before me.”   
  
God, if Zach had ever gotten a text out of the blue, 18 months after losing Chris, of a picture of a dog that looked like Noah from a person claiming to be Chris he’d probably have ended up committed.   
  
“Thank god you didn’t,” Zach says, “I think Katie would have taken me to a nice, quiet, padded room somewhere.”   
  
At her name, Chris loses his breath on a quick sob, and his shoulders slump. Zach sits up, running his hand along Chris’s spine, and whispers, “Sorry.”   
  
“No, it’s okay.” He shakes his head, like he’s shaking out the cobwebs of grief. “How is she? How is everyone? I’m not supposed to know any of this stuff, you know. I wasn’t allowed to check in on anyone.”   
  
Zach wonders what the hell Chris had gotten himself into to be locked up in his own life like this, but decides that conversation can wait. It’s important, but it’s not the most important thing.   
  
“She’s good. The kids are good. Everyone is fine, Chris. Katie’s published a book-,” he cuts himself off before Chris has the chance to butt in, holding a hand up, “And no, it has nothing to do with you.”   
  
“Thank god for that,” he says, wide eyed.   
  
“She’d never. She knows you too well,” Zach says. “Your mom and dad are doing okay. I try to see them once a week or so, and actually,” he looks over his shoulder at the calendar hanging in the kitchen, “I’m due to call them tomorrow. I try to keep in touch as much as possible. They like hearing from your friends. I think it helps them, to see your friends doing their thing, succeeding.”   
  
He smiles, small and soft and sad. “That does sound like them.”   
  
They let the quiet settle, and Zach basks in the sound and feel of Chris breathing next to him, the heat from Chris’s thigh, the flush across his neck and chest from the alcohol.   
  
Zach sighs. “Do you have any idea how much you’re missed?”   
  
Chris leans forward, hands between his knees, beer bottle dangling between his fore and middle fingers. “You’ve all had to miss one person.” He taps a nail against the glass bottle a few times. “Zach, I’ve had to miss all of you.” His voice breaks on the last word, breaking Zach’s heart right along with it. Zach takes the bottle and lays it on the table, then grabs Chris by the shoulder and maneuvers them horizontally, squishing himself between Chris’s body and the back of the couch. Chris is smiling slyly when Zach looks back up, and says, “It’s not often you’re the one manhandling me.”   
  
Zach thinks of all the times Chris had tackled him while playing rugby in the backyard, or winning nearly every boxing match they had in training, the easy way Chris could overpower him no matter the circumstances. His face heats at the memories, but he looks Chris in the eye and ticks up an eyebrow. “Yeah, well, I guess a lot has changed in the last three years,” he says, squeezing Chris’s bicep a few times.   
  
“Careful, now,” Chris says. “I did always say that if I didn’t have to look like that I’d end up pretty soft.”   
  
Zach can’t think of anything better than the feel of Chris next to him right now. He slides his hand down to Chris’s side, rubs his thumb across his ribs because he can. Chris says, “Plus, I still think I could take you. I always had more skill anyway,” and before he finishes the sentence he’s rolling out and away and laughing, anticipating Zach’s scoff and attempt at a pinch. He ends up on the floor on his back, palm on his chest jumping with his laugh, his other hand resting up against the couch cushion. Zach reaches forward, threads his fingers between Chris’s, and presses his mouth to the back of Chris’s hand.   
  
He murmurs, “I love you,” into the skin and bone and muscle of a hand he thought he’d never see again, and when Chris sits up and leans his elbows on the edge of the couch, tipping his head to meet Zach’s and kiss him for real, he says it into his lips, too.   
  
“I know,” Chris says. “I’m sorry. I love you, too. I needed you to know that, but I couldn’t, I- It’s my biggest regret. And I still do, I need you to know that.”   
  
He does know, but hearing it now, out loud, from Chris himself, warm and alive and breathing across his neck, is better than anything Zach has ever heard. He nods and presses a kiss to Chris’s cheek, then his ear, his neck; runs his fingers through the beard, longer than it’s ever been, and rests his temple against Chris’s jaw.   
  
Chris climbs back up onto the couch and looks at Zach with such tenderness that Zach feels it in his gut like a kick. It’s a look they’ve shared before, many times, when Zach didn’t think he could be seeing what he was seeing. So many times Zach felt like he was projecting his feelings onto Chris. So many times he stopped himself from saying anything that might rock the sturdy boat they’d built named Friendship, and he hates himself, for a moment, for letting his fear outweigh his potential happiness. That was before he’d realised the depth of those emotions, all the way back when he was convincing himself it was superficial, a crush.   
  
They wrap themselves around each other and under a blanket, Zach trapping Chris’s cold feet between his warm ones, and they talk. A few times Zach has to remind himself that this isn’t normal, that it’s been years and Chris was capital G Gone, but Chris still tells him about a new book he’s read, like he did every other week for nearly fifteen years. He tells Zach that he should read it and Zach says, like he’s done dozens of times before, “Yeah, I’ll put it on my list.”   
  
He tells Chris that he’s finished his list, finally. Finished it about four months ago, all the books that Chris had told him he should read. He’d dragged his feet because he didn’t want to get to the end, but couldn’t put it off any longer. “I’ll start a new list. I’ll try to be better at getting to them this time.”   
  
  
\--   
  
  
He wakes up slowly, heavily, with remnants of a weird dream behind his eyelids. He thinks he’s finally dreamt about Chris, all this time later, but even as he’s thinking it he can feel the weight of Chris’s thigh between his own, and his head on Zach’s shoulder. They’re sweating, Zach remembering that they’re both furnaces in bed, so he pushes the blanket down under his arm and uses the opportunity to touch. He traces Chris’s profile with his fingertips, runs his hand through the long hair around Chris’s ears. He slips his hand under the collar of Chris’s button-up to thumb across his collarbone, and honestly if Chris was trying to keep his life on the down-low he should not be wearing a shirt this blue to a holiday function - it turned his eyes into lasers, impossible not to notice, not to draw attention.   
  
Chris stirs, sighs and shuffles and stretches, and opens his eyes, looking directly at Zach. He grins and pulls Zach to him, humming into his mouth around their smiles. The velvet slide of Chris’s tongue against his kickstarts something, something that had been kept at bay, and heat rolls in his stomach.   
  
He pulls Chris on top of him, presses his thigh up between Chris’s spread legs and groans when Chris pushes back down. He can feel the hard length of him against his hip, snakes a hand down and palms at Chris through his jeans. The deep sound that comes from Chris’s throat is like heaven. Zach mumbles, “Oh god, okay, naked, everybody naked.”   
  
Chris laughs at him, kneeling back and making quick work of the buttons of his shirt and tossing it on the floor. Zach takes the time and space he’s given to truly gawk and feel, running his hands along Chris’s sides and thighs and dipping his fingers under the waistband of his jeans, causing Chris to suck in a quick breath and swat him away. “Tickles,” he whispers with a smirk, working on his own fly and letting it hang open before tugging at Zach’s belt.   
  
Zach, for his part, manages to sit up enough to pull his sweater over his head and be ready to watch Chris’s hands and face when he finally, fucking finally, slides his hand into Zach’s pants and rubs him over his boxers. He pays special attention to the widening wet spot, thumbing across it lightly with the edge of his fingernail, then trailing back down to the base. Zach honestly can’t decide what he wants to look at more, but watching Chris’s hands work him over is certainly winning until he glances up at Chris’s face. His lips are parted, his brow furrowed, and his tongue runs along his bottom lip, sucking it into his mouth and slowly letting it slide back out.   
  
Zach whines at him and pulls him in to kiss and bite at those lips himself, rutting up into Chris’s hand and sighing into his mouth. Chris plants his knees on either side of Zach’s waist and grinds down in slow circles. With his head ducked his hair falls into his eyes and Zach feels the pull before he realises it, watches his own fingers sift through the strands like he’s watching a movie. Chris flicks his eyes up and squints a small smile at him. He wiggles out of the rest of his clothes, grumbling under his breath that Zach won’t stop touching him long enough for him to get his legs out of his pants, so Zach takes the hint and throws his own clothes to the floor over his head.   
  
From the moment he feels the first slide of skin on skin, no matter how much he tries to stay in the moment - something his therapist had tried to get him to do and something he had always found shockingly difficult - he finds himself flashing in and out of what feels like reality itself. The sweat slick skin of Chris’s arms against his biceps, the fluttery, open-mouthed kisses Chris places against his nose and cheeks and corners of his mouth, the ridiculous heat of both of their cocks in the tight circle of Chris’s hand. It all blurs together and falls apart and all he knows is that he manages to get his own hand in the mix, clumsily clasping around Chris’s fingers and feeling them both pulse in his hand, one after the other, and if you asked him later he’d never remember who was who, or who came first.   
  
Chris lays against him, dead weight and puffing hot air onto his neck, crushing their hands between them, and all Zach wants is to stay like this forever, ignore the pins and needles in his foot and the cramp in his wrist and just lay here.   
  
Too soon, Chris groans and slowly rolls off Zach and the couch, wandering to the bathroom and returning with a cloth and his boxers back on. They clean up and Zach makes the executive decision to get in bed, stands with a tilt of his head toward the hallway, and Chris follows without a word.   
  
  
\--   
  
  
He wakes to the curtains being drawn, shutting out the newly risen sun, and Chris crouching at Zach’s side of the bed.   
  
“You’re not planning on skipping out, are ya?” Zach jokes.   
  
Chris’s eyes flick away, to the pillow, then back up to Zach’s face and he says, “I can’t stay here, Zach,” and when Zach pushes up onto an elbow and opens his mouth, Chris shakes his head and says, “And you can’t tell anyone about this. You can’t tell anyone you saw me. No one can know I’m here.”   
  
Being hit by a freight train would be easier than this, and all the anger that he’d had to bottle up boils over in an instant. “Are you fucking kidding me? Christopher, what the fuck? What did you expect when you came to me last night?”   
  
“Not this, obviously. I just wanted to see you,” he answers, exasperated. He stands and steps toward the door, running a hand through his hair, but turns back around before saying, “That was a mistake, Zach. And I’m sorry that I dragged you into this, but I did, it’s done. I couldn’t just sit around knowing you were right there. Alright? But you have to believe me, this is for your own good. And my safety.”   
  
Zach had known they wouldn’t be able to just move along with their lives, Chris at his side pretending nothing happened; ignoring the three years he was gone - dead. But he had done such a great job of ignoring the thought last night that he’d nearly forgotten that they hadn’t actually talked about it.   
  
“So, what? What the fuck happened, then, Chris, for you to disappear after your  _ house burned to the ground _ , with you in it, or so we thought. We thought you were dead, you ass, so this better be good.”   
  
Chris raises his eyebrows and spreads his arms, palms up, and says, “Right, because I’d just leave and let you all believe I’d died for no good reason, Zach. Fuck you. I would tell you if there was any conceivable way, I promise.” He spots something on Zach’s dresser and picks it up: the worry stone. He tosses it up a couple times before settling it in his right hand, rubbing his thumb into the divot. Like Zach has done a hundred times; a thousand. “It’s not safe, and I shouldn’t be here, and you absolutely cannot tell anyone - not Mom or Dad or Katie or your fucking therapist or the bartender that always gave you freebies. No one.”   
  
“That bartender’s on maternity leave right now, anyway.” He didn’t mean to break the tension, but the corners of Chris’s mouth lift slowly and he drops his hands back at his sides. He sighs.   
  
“Tell you what: I’ll give you my friend’s address, I think you’ve met him, so it won’t be exceptionally suspicious. Write to me. It’ll be romantic as fuck.”   
  
“Oh, you want romance? I’ll sign it with lipstick and spray some perfume on it, sound good?” He doesn’t mean to sound quite so sarcastic.   
  
“Sounds perfect. Also,” he inhales sharply, “You do have to address me as Leonard. Last name is Baker, all my ID is changed over, the house is in that name, my bank account. We have to be careful, Zach. And I can’t promise that we’ll be able to see each other again. Actually, we almost certainly  _ won’t _ be able to. Ever.”   
  
One of the most devastating things Zach has ever seen is how blue Chris’s eyes are when he’s crying, the sight generally reserved for reacting to fake deaths of father figures in movies. Now, his eyes fill and his eyebrows knit together, deflating even more than he already had. The stone shines in his hand even in the dim light, and the colour is identical to his eyes. Zach gets up and moves to hug him. Chris grabs him back and squeezes around his waist, forcing the air out of Zach’s lungs in a rush, like he doesn’t ever want to let go.   
  
Their goodbye is too brief for the gravity of it all, and Zach feels weighed down for the rest of the day. Images of Chris keep flitting around behind his eyes every time he blinks, and when he gets in bed at the end of the day, he pulls out the tiny slip of paper with the address - written in Chris’s imperfect handwriting - and realises he’s already rubbed the corners apart from touching it all day, making sure it’s still there. He tucks it in his wallet to stop further wear, and as he tries to fall asleep he’s already writing the first letter in his head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now we're caught up to where this was published to begin with.
> 
> Also I've managed to put myself into this story in the way of a date - my birthday is December 13. v important date :))))))


	4. I Intend to Hold You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _He looks out over the city, then up into the hills, and can’t tell the difference between Christmas lights and regular old city lights. He wishes Chris were here, that the house was still here, that they were here together._

_I think you ought to know that_ ** _  
_** ** _I intend to hold you  
_** _For the longest time_  
  
  
  
  
This Christmas might be more difficult even than the first Christmas without Chris. Zach spends so much time with family - both his and Chris’s - and mutual friends that he comes up in conversation constantly. _He’d have loved this or that show_ , or _I wish he could have seen the boys’ Kirk and Spock Halloween costumes, he’d have loved that_ , or _I saw the most ridiculous kitchen gadget the other day that would have made a perfect Christmas gift. He would have loved it_.  
  
Zach tries to keep up, tries to commit it all to memory to write down later and send to him. He also tries not to say things like that out loud. _Oh,_ _I can let him know!_ Or, _Send me a picture, I’ll get it to him_. He nods solemnly when prompted, gives a quick toast and clinks his seltzer water to Gwynne and Robert’s champagne, and attempts not to look too relieved when the conversation finally takes a turn into less Chris-oriented topics.  
  
On New Years Eve, ten minutes before midnight, he excuses himself from the conversation around the fire and strolls up the hill to the still-empty lot. It’s cleaned up, the foundation removed and filled in, covered in grass, with a big sale sign on the gate. The stupid thing’s been on and off the market for years, every sale falling through. He had heard someone wanted to build a playground there, but all Zach can think is that it wouldn’t feel right - what would feel right would be to build a library, name it after Chris, surround it with a garden full of benches. At least, that would feel _better_. What would feel _right_ would be a house with a Chris in it. Anyway, those people never ended up buying the lot, so there will be no swings or monkey bars for the foreseeable future.  
  
He climbs the fence and hops over, checking around for cameras, even though he knows there are none. He stops in the middle of the lot and sizes it up, takes a few steps one way, then another, and when he stops he thinks he’s probably about where the master bedroom’s window would have been. He looks out over the city, then up into the hills, and can’t tell the difference between Christmas lights and regular old city lights. He wishes Chris were here, that the house was still here, that they were here together. He’ll write that down, too.  
  
  
\--  
  
  
Chris doesn’t really write back, and while Zach understands, he also… doesn’t really understand. Chris never told him one way or the other what they can and can’t do, really. Chris writes a couple times, small letters with small updates, always signed with an “I love you”, and once with a lipstick kiss. Zach sends back another letter that’s only lipstick kisses all over the page, front and back, and the next time he receives anything from Chris it’s four months later and terse. Zach figures he crossed a line, but he also doesn’t particularly care - _he_ thought it was funny.  
  
  
\--  
  
  
One whole year and technically two Christmases after he found Chris (or - Chris found him?), he agrees to go on a date. He’d been in a relationship for a couple years while Chris was Gone, but since Texas it hasn’t felt right. Though he and Chris will never be exactly what Zach wants, it felt wrong to get involved with anyone on the side while writing what amounted to love notes to another person. And it’s that - the fact that Chris is the first and anyone else, anyone tangible and here, right in front of him that he can touch, is the someone on the side - that makes him agree to the date. It’s not healthy, this waiting on someone who doesn’t technically exist anymore, and he has no one to talk to about it so he’s on his own with the decision making in this distinct area of his life. Maybe it’s a mistake, but it’s _definitely_ a mistake to be waiting on Chris.  
  
The date is fine. He sees the guy a handful of times for a couple months, and he gets to have sex with someone he genuinely likes. But then, out of the blue, he opens his mailbox to a little box and a card with Chris’s writing scrawled across it, and if he compares this feeling to any feeling he got with David it wouldn’t be a fair fight. It would be a complete, immediate knock-out. He knows as soon as he wraps his fingers around the box that he won’t be seeing David anymore.  
  
He gets inside, shoving the door closed and checking the lock three times before feeling confident that no one is going to barge in.  
  
He sets his cup on the coffee table and lays the box next to it. Sitting on the edge of the couch, he opens the letter. It’s short, which is no surprise, but it’s definitely different.  
  
 _I got some news the other day. Please destroy this - the letter and the USB drive - after you check it out. Smash it with a hammer, or throw it in the ocean, or light it on fire. Well, maybe not that one._  
  
He wrote an honest to god smiley face after that, two lines and a big toothy grin underneath, and Zach could not possibly love him more. He shakes his head and keeps reading.  
  
 _I don’t know what this means for me, or us, or anything. Probably nothing. But I won’t lie and tell you that I didn’t get a little bit excited when I got this in the mail._ _  
_ _  
_ _Love you._  
  
Zach grabs the box and goes into his office, furiously shaking his mouse to turn the screen on. The drive connects and asks for a password; Zach has no idea if there are rules to this password. Is it a 4 digit PIN? Or a random assortment of letters? He’s just about to Google “brute force decryption programs” when, on a whim, he types in “Moribund.”  
  
Of course that would work. Chris has never let him live that one down, and doesn’t appear to have any plans to let it go in the near future.  
  
There are only two files on the drive. They’re both named with random numbers and letters, no indication of what could be in them. He has a moment of panic at the thought that someone has found out about Chris and is messing with him. What if this wasn’t from Chris at all? He did say that it was safer if they never had any contact at all. And it’s not like their vocab battles weren’t common knowledge amongst fans.  
  
It was definitely Chris’s writing, though. He takes a breath and double clicks the first icon.  
  
He blinks at the document. Most of it doesn’t make sense, seemingly written in some type of cryptography, but it’s obvious enough that there are arrest records for three separate people, with photos and other identifying information. Zach thinks he’s seen one of them before, but the other two are unfamiliar.  
  
He exits out of that one and, before clicking the second document, he glances around the room. Suddenly, it feels like he’s being watched. He’s contemplating destroying the drive without even looking at the other file when his phone pings in his pocket and he jolts. He pulls it out in time to see Katie’s name pop up. He can feel his pulse in his throat, but whatever it is, if it means that maybe one day Chris can come back to him, to them, he has to open it.  
  
It’s difficult to read underneath the stamping. It’s clearly a copy of a document, with big block letters at the top stating that it’s _not_ to be copied and that only those with special clearance can access it. If this were a movie, it would say “TOP SECRET” in giant red letters. It appears to be a copy of a coroner’s report, with DNA results and blood types and fingerprints. At the very bottom is a photo of one of the people from the other document.  
  
He closes it quickly and opens the other file again, looking at the names. He doesn’t dare write them down, on paper or on his phone, but he reads them over and over. When he’s sure he won’t forget them, he deletes the files from the drive, runs some software Joe had told him about to ensure it was completely wiped, gets his phone and keys, pockets the drive, and heads to the library.  
  
He keeps the drive curled into his hand in his pocket the whole way, only letting it go when he’s sitting at a computer. He opens it up and types in one of the names of the apparently still living people in the document and pulls up the public arrest records. Arrested ten days ago in Nevada, with two accomplices, relating to a crime committed the night Chris died. Disappeared. Whatever.  
  
The other two records don’t give much more information, but they all seem to have been involved in something on the night of July 20th. There’s no specifics other than the fact that it was a felony. There are multiple charges for each person, but not all of them reference the same date - some are earlier and some are later and a couple are that night. Whatever it was, these people had been up to something for a while.  
  
Piecing it together, Zach assumes that the direct threat on Chris’s safety involved these people, and now it seems that they’re going to trial, or dead. A flutter of hope sends a shudder through him that he tamps down on at the same time that he palms the USB drive back into his hand.  
  
He decides to do all three things that Chris suggested - he takes it apart, destroys the memory chip with a hammer, then throws the pieces in his fire pit in the backyard, along with the letter. When he’s reasonably sure that there’s nothing left of either object, he throws water over the embers and, the next morning, he shovels the ash into a bucket, cleans out the fire pit, and drives into the mountains, dumping the contents of the bucket into a lake. Maybe it’s over-the-top. He doesn’t really care.  
  
He doesn’t mention it in his next letter to Chris, other than writing his own smiley face in the same way Chris had. He does notice that for the next eight months, Chris doesn’t write to him at all, though he continues sending his own. Chris had told him not to stop, no matter how few and far between the reciprocating letters were.  
  
When he receives the next letter from Chris, there’s no indication of any new information or any more hope than normal in his phrasing. Then he receives another letter a few weeks later, and another a few weeks after that, and then he realises he’s getting a letter back for every one he sends and they’re actually speaking on a regular basis for the first time.  
  
Zach learns so much in the next few months. He learns that the guy he saw Chris with was a friend, one of the only people he’s allowed himself to get close to; that Chris was actually living in Pittsburgh for the first couple months that he was Gone, and one day he saw Zach’s mom and had a panic attack; that it _was_ him laughing that early morning at the gas station - he’d been out with friends, one of whom was exceptionally drunk and wanted a) more beer, and b) snacks. Chris had laughed at his friend and ran into the bathroom, leaving the place empty when Zach turned around.  
  
He keeps an eye on the news a normal, respectable amount. He doesn’t search the names again, though he never forgets them either.  
  
When the news finally does break, he’s in a coffee shop sitting at a table by the window, head in one hand and typing out a grocery list one-handed with the other. The reporter says the name of one of the two living suspects, snapping Zach’s attention to the TV. He glances back and forth between his phone and the TV on the wall, listening for any hint of good news over the crowd noise of the cafe.  
  
Evidently, one of the two in custody had died three days before their trial, apparently of natural causes. The trial for the final person is set for six weeks from now - the reporter specifies that as of right now, the police are keeping any specific information close at hand due to the victim’s safety. Zach puts a reminder in his phone for a few days before, titles it something mundane like “Don’t forget Hello Fresh subscription!!!” in case anyone were to look at - or steal, his brain helpfully adds - his phone.  
  
Six weeks. Six weeks may be all that stands between him and Chris. He scolds himself, knowing that even if this person is found guilty of whatever felony took place, that doesn’t mean that Chris is safe. It doesn’t mean there aren’t more people involved, and it doesn’t mean that Chris will just be able to come back even if they are the last person involved.  
  
Sleep does not come easily for the rest of the week.  
  
  
\--  
  
  
Katie invites him over for dinner one night before the trial, completely unaware of the turmoil and elation bubbling just under the surface of Zach’s normal appearance. The kids are always a good distraction, and they get him playing some video game, and he leaves full and happy. At the door, Katie stops him with a hand on his elbow and tells him, “You look good. I’m really happy that you seem to be doing well. I know this has been just as hard on you as it has on us.”  
  
Zach’s heart clenches, full to bursting, and he swallows down the lump in his throat. He wants to tell her everything. He settles for a quick, “You have no idea. Thank you,” and a tight hug.  
  
  
\--  
  
  
Trying to stay a casual observer of court cases in Los Angeles feels much more difficult than he ever would have expected, but the day comes and no one mentions anything to him about his interest or knowledge, so he must have done at least a decent job of keeping his mouth shut. He is an actor, he reminds himself.  
  
Over the six weeks of waiting, he learns through bits and pieces that the remaining person was suspected of conspiracy to kidnap, kidnapping, human trafficking, and arson. It’s this last one that raises Zach’s hackles, no matter how gruesome some of the details of the other charges are. Somehow, they’ve maintained anonymity for the victims, and Zach feels like he’s the only person besides the suspect and lawyers who knows they’re charged with the arson of the house of Chris Pine. No one seems to have put together that the dates of the offense and the day Chris disappeared are one and the same. Either way, when the day comes, they’re sentenced to enough years for each felony to keep them in prison until they die.  
  
Zach can only speculate that Chris must have been in the wrong place at the wrong time, or had seen something he wasn’t supposed to, or is in some other way a victim. He can’t imagine Chris would be the suspect of anything even remotely related to these people, so him being on the run is scratched off the list pretty quick. Witness Protection is what he finally settles on, though shakily, since he’s never known Witness Protection to fake a death.  
  
He waits, but then there’s radio silence. He doesn’t hear from Chris for days, then weeks, now it’s been months again. He had been expecting some reaction to the trial, although he’s not sure if Chris knows anything. The last he knew, Chris had only learned the two suspects had been arrested and one killed. Chris may not know anything yet. He may never be told, and Zach’s fingers itch to be the one to write it out and send the letter.  
  
He refrains.  
  
  
\--  
  
  
He agrees to another film and takes some time off from Before the Door, which means he has far too much time on his hands for a while. And if he can’t contact Chris, or at least if he can’t ask about or tell anything important, then he can at least do his research.  
  
Between takes, while cameras are being reset and the crew are eating, he pulls open article after article, screenshotting anything that seems relevant. For weeks he sifts through websites that he’s sure have gotten him on multiple lists in some database somewhere. Eventually he has a list of names of people who may have information that would be of interest to him, but he knows he can’t reach out. He knows if Chris were safe, he’d have heard from him by now, and the prickle of anxiety for what the alternative could mean causes his stomach to roll, so he downs the bagels and water and tries to move along.  
  
Somehow, while clicking aimlessly through his screenshots and word documents one night, nearly cross-eyed from the late hour, he notices that two of the investigators seem to be related, dealing with certain similar types of cases and overlapping on a few others. One is in Los Angeles.  
  
The other is in Houston.  
  
They work on cases that are so specifically similar to whatever is going on with Chris - strange high profile cases, WITPRO, convenient disappearances, one other fake death with very little information attached - that Zach can’t just let it sit. He copies the emails and types a short message, more of a probe to see how interested they are in working with someone, and he sends both before he can give it a second thought.


	5. I Want You So Bad

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _It’s not spring, is the thing; but it does feel like it, sticking out like a sore thumb amongst the beautiful summer days. Enough so that he fires off a text to Zach that’s just three question marks and the cloud with rain emoji and if his stomach flutters when he sees that Zach is calling him, he blames it on the coffee._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me when writing this: let's sprinkle in a little angst from Chris's POV, eh?

I don’t care what consequence it brings   
I have been a fool for lesser things   
**I want you so bad** **_  
_ ** **_  
_ ** _   
_ _   
_ _ Spring in Los Angeles is one of Chris’s favourite times of year (the other is winter in New York, but he can’t ever let Zach know about that one). They get some rain and hot weather, the scent mixing to create a great atmosphere for writing and reading. He spends most of his days in his backyard if it’s nice, or in the sun room if it’s raining. Or, like now, sitting outside a cafe under the overhanging roof, just outside of the range of the rain but still able to hear it over the sound of cars rushing past. _ _   
_ _   
_ _ He knows better than to take this all for granted, though it is easy to do that on a day-to-day basis. He meditates nearly every day and part of the process is expressing how grateful he is for the life he has. A job he actually enjoys, enough money to not have to worry, time to spend doing basically whatever he wants - and meeting the people he hopes will be in his life for the rest of it. _ _   
_ _   
_ _ It’s not spring, is the thing; but it does feel like it, sticking out like a sore thumb amongst the beautiful summer days. Enough so that he fires off a text to Zach that’s just three question marks and the cloud with rain emoji and if his stomach flutters when he sees that Zach is calling him, he blames it on the coffee. _ _   
_ _   
_ _ Zach tends to do that - Chris will text him and instead of texting back he’ll call. If it were anyone else it would annoy the shit out of him, but since it’s Zach… _ _   
_ _   
_ _ It also hasn’t escaped him that he’s never noticed Zach do it with anyone else. He feels a little special. _ _   
_ _   
_ _ So they chat and they try to figure out when they can meet up again, but Zach has to go away for some filming in a couple weeks and Chris has family dinners to attend before then and it feels like it’s going to be forever before they can even go to a movie together. _ _   
_ _   
_ _ Night has taken over when Chris realises that they’re still talking, and he’s still sitting outside of this cafe decidedly not reading the book he had brought for the express purpose of this little outing. They hang up on a promise to check their schedules tomorrow and see if there’s a day they can squeeze something in, and Chris slides his book back into his bag to walk to his car. _ _   
_ _   
_ _ The rain has a way of making everything eerily quiet, he thinks. It’s not loud, but it overpowers other sounds anyway, like footsteps or distant car horns or your own thoughts, sometimes. _ _   
_ _   
_ _ He steps into his house and instantly notices something out of place - his boots. He’s not a particularly tidy person, but he does always put his boots in the same spot just inside the door, and now they’re tipped over into the entryway into the kitchen. _ _   
_ _   
_ _ He blames it on Wednesday, though she’s never done it before. _ _   
_ _   
_ _ Walking further into the house, he drops his bag into the living room and, again, notices that his couch is askew, not pressed against the wall like it normally is. He peeks behind it to find absolutely nothing, shoves it back where it belongs, and goes to bed, grabbing Wednesday on the way and settling down with her under the covers. _ _   
_ _   
_ _ Forty-five minutes and a very light snooze later he wakes to the smell of smoke and the dog barking. Grabbing a hoodie and a leash from behind the bedroom door, he swings it open and flips the switch for the hall light, which doesn’t turn on. He can barely see his hand before his face through the haze, so he switches course and backtracks to the back of the house and out the patio door. _ _   
_ _   
_ _ The side walkway to the front of the house is blocked by the gate, normally unlocked but completely jammed right now. _ _   
_ _   
_ _ There’s two things he can do - he can jump the fence, or he can go through the small thicket of woods at the back of the garden which leads into the neighbours’. Something tells him not to do that - something tells him that he’s being herded toward the back of the house, so he grabs Wednesday’s leash and hooks it onto the gate. He steps up onto the lower rail and lifts her over, swearing and apologizing for dropping her onto the gravel on the other side. He hoists himself over, unhooks the leash, and runs to the front of the house, seeing the entire front half in flames. _ _   
_ _   
_ _ He reaches for his phone in his hoodie pocket, but that won’t turn on either. He feels his stomach sink and panic set in right before hearing tires slowly making their way up the driveway and onto the gravel in front of the garage. There are no headlights on, but the dome light pops on long enough for Chris to see the guy’s face. He doesn’t recognize him, and the sinking digs deeper when the back door opens and another person waves him in, mouthing “quick, quick”. _ _   
_ _   
_ _ He hesitates, because of course he does; he still has that feeling of being herded, and he looks back at the house and the still-closed gate and hears distant sirens but knows it’s too late. The house is gone. He pushes Wednesday into the back seat and falls into it behind her, and they’re on the road before he can get his seatbelt on - far faster leaving than they were coming. _ _   
_ _   
_ _ No one speaks for twenty minutes. Chris’s foot is tapping incessantly on the floor, Wednesday is sleeping with her head on his lap, the woman next to him is typing something into her phone (for twenty minutes?), and the guy driving is intent on the road. They get far enough from the house that they can pull into a clearing and cut the engine, enveloping them in darkness. _ _   
_ _   
_ _ The woman clears her throat and says, a bit too matter-of-fact for his taste, “There is a ring of human traffickers in the Los Angeles metro area. Usually, they stick to ‘undesirables’; LGBTQ+, people of colour, children to single parents. But there is a faction that relies solely on high profile names. It’s less human trafficking at that point and more a kidnapping and ransom situation, but either way, they make their money via drugs, prostitution, and torturing families of people who have money. Usually, their victims are already dead by the time they get the money, and usually their families live in so much fear for the rest of their lives that they never say anything. _ _   
_ _   
_ _ To cut a very long story short, we’ve been following them for a long time, and there have been a number of cases similar to yours-” Chris wonders what exactly that means, cases similar to his - what cases? “-that we have been able to intercept early enough that this group has left well enough alone and moved on to other targets. Yours was closer than we had hoped. We do apologize for that.” _ _   
_ _   
_ _ She pauses, but there’s nothing Chris can say at this point. He’s still not entirely sure these are even the good guys, for whatever that phrase is worth. _ _   
_ _   
_ _ “So… unfortunately, that means we have to use their own plan against them and have you pronounced dead.” _ _   
_ _   
_ _ Chris chokes on his own saliva and she does at least have the wherewithal to look apologetic before continuing: “They were smart. We found blueprints for your house, and electrical schematics from when it was built on a network that wasn’t as secure as they thought. They cut the power and made sure the smoke detectors wouldn’t go off. They messed with the wiring in an outlet in your living room that would be guaranteed to start an electrical fire that could have happened accidentally. They’re probably still parked down the road from your neighbour’s waiting for you to run out the back of your garden. When they don’t find you, they’ll have to hightail it out of there because the place is crawling with fire fighters, and a US Marshal is already on the phone with the fire chief to confirm your death. As of about seven minutes ago, Chris Pine is deceased; died of smoke inhalation in his home in Los Feliz, California. It will be confirmed for your family in a couple days.” _ _   
_ _   
_ _ “Jesus Christ.” _ _   
_ _   
_ _ “Yeah. I’m sorry, Chris. I am.” She pauses again, pulls some papers from a briefcase and hands them to him, along with a pen. “We’re putting you up at a safehouse for the night, but first thing in the morning you’ll be moving to Pittsburgh as one Leonard Baker. He’ll be created during the night and we’ll drop off your new cards with the name in the morning before you head to the airport. In the trunk there’s a bag with new clothes, different coloured contacts, toiletries, and a prepaid phone. Your contact will be a man named Matt, he’ll call you when you land and show you where you’ll be living.” _ _   
_ _   
_ _ At that, the car starts back up and they turn around, cutting into a narrow road with no street lights. They come up to a house that looks like it’s seen better days but isn’t completely horrible, with a light over the door and one on in the kitchen. “We’ll be outside all night, and there’s already been a sweep of the entire place. You just have to make it about-” she checks her watch, “-five hours and we’ll knock on the door. We’re not going through LAX for obvious reasons, so there’s a bit of a drive, but you should be on the 5:55 flight out.” _ _   
_ _   
_ _ She lets him sit and stew for a while, a good long while, and when he finally starts asking questions he can’t seem to stop. The worst part is that he has to give up Wednesday, who’s still asleep across his thighs, though he’s assured that she’ll be well taken care of. _ _   
_ _   
_ _ It feels like he should be more shocked, or maybe crying or screaming, but he assumes that will come later. _ _   
_ _   
_ _ He goes inside and sits on the bed, turns out the lights, and waits for morning. _ _   
_ _   
_ _   
_ _   
_ Chris loves Texas summers, too, but they’re too hot. California at least gets the ocean breeze, but here it’s dry as dirt, so he spends his days inside, always, under the air-conditioning and freezing, refusing to put socks on but wearing comfy slippers in spite of himself.   
  
He’s reading that book again now. It’s taken until now to be able to pick it back up again, and it feels strange - a hard cover, unlike the paperback he’d had to protect from the rain that day. It’s a classic and he can see why - it’s engaging and funny, and he almost,  _ almost _ , doesn’t notice the black Escalade pulling into his driveway.   
  
But there’s only one person who drives a black Escalade that Chris knows would be pulling into his driveway, and it’s Matt. The last time Matt was here was four years ago, two years after he’d “died”, to say hello, update some papers, and check in on him. He’d said that day, at the door on his way out, that the drive from Pittsburgh to here was hell and that the next time he sees him will either be ten years from now to renew the paperwork and re-sign his life away, or when all three people involved were locked up or dead. No more “social visits”, as he liked to call them.   
  
Chris looks down at his book and thinks of Zach and his home, instead of flames and someone else’s face on his ID. He closes it, and gets to his front door before Matt has even gotten out of his car.


	6. And How You Needed Me Too

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Maybe he doesn’t need to use it anymore, but it is nice to have it out in the open again. Comforting. And it feels more like Chris is with him than any other object has in nearly six years._

_ I’m that voice you’re hearing in the hall _ _   
_ _ And the greatest miracle of all _ _   
_ _ Is how I need you _ _   
_ **_And how you needed me too_ ** _   
_ _ That hasn’t happened for the longest time _ _   
_ _   
_ _   
_   
Cleaning out his attic is one of Zach’s least favourite chores. He tries to do it once or twice a year, but last year he’d neglected it completely and now it’s full of boxes and old furniture. He’d sent the emails two weeks ago and can’t stop thinking about it - if it was a mistake, if he’d put anyone at risk - so he needs a distraction. Joe’s come by to help with the promise of beer and dinner in the form of pizza, so they each take a side and start sorting. He’s got garbage piles, donation piles, and “definitely keeping” piles.   
  
Joe is the one who finds it, the worry stone. Zach had brought it up here after filming and tucked it into the drawer of an old desk. He hadn’t been using it much anyway, and now all he could see when he looked at it was Chris tossing it back and forth between his hands.   
  
Joe raises an eyebrow at him and hovers it over the piles, waiting for an answer. Zach puts his hand out and Joe drops it into his palm with a shrug, turning back to his corner while Zach pockets the stone and fits his thumb into the imprint.   
  
When the pizza arrives and they go back downstairs, Zach places the stone on a small display case in the entryway. Maybe he doesn’t need to use it anymore, but it is nice to have it out in the open again. Comforting. And it feels more like Chris is with him than any other object has in nearly six years.   
  
  
\--   
  
  
Joe leaves and against his better judgement Zach brings his phone into his room before getting in bed. He’s been great at keeping it out of arm's reach during the night, but when his brain is firing on all cylinders he needs the distraction. There were a lot of things in that attic that reminded him of a lot of other things he’d been trying to forget.   
  
He taps the screen and a notification for some emails pops up, some sales, some scripts, but then an unknown email address catches his attention. There’s no body, and the subject is just a period, but there’s an attachment - also with no real title.   
  
Pressing in on it to download it, he has a split second where he thinks he’s lost his mind - he never opens unknown emails, usually just deletes them or marks them as spam. And he especially never opens any links or downloads any attachments. He panics, sure he’s mindlessly downloaded some virus, but what opens is a document similar to the ones Chris had sent him on the flash drive. It starts with information on the same three people, but as he scrolls the documents get more specific. He assumes this is from one of the investigators although the address isn’t one of the ones he had sent his own email out to, and he has no idea why they would send him this after the message he’d sent them. It was a completely innocuous message, no information, just a request to speak with them about something important to him, and Zach’s email doesn’t have his name in it at all.   
  
The entire story is so convoluted that it’s hard to keep track of. He finds himself scrolling back and forth to remind himself of certain facts before continuing. It’s near the bottom when he spots Chris’s name amongst the rest of the paragraph - it jumps out at him like it was highlighted and underlined and bolded, but it’s just sitting there, nestled in with the rest of the information. He’s listed with a few other people, names he recognises, other celebrities or business people who are well-known enough that Zach doesn’t have to Google them.   
  
While not all of the information is here - and there are some glaring holes in the plot - he learns that Chris appeared to have been part of a ransom plan along with several others. The house fire was real, but someone - Zach assumes whoever sent him this information, but if he’s honest he’s just completely in the dark about it - intercepted the situation and instead of kidnapped, Chris was taken and hidden.   
  
The dates at the bottom of the next document, the document with Chris’s signature and with the details of the terms of his safety, are long past. Zach shivers, thinking about how Chris must have been feeling when he was signing them.   
  
At the very bottom, past a blank page, is a photocopied image of a smiley face - two long lines and a big toothy grin. If he squints, he thinks he can see the outline of a lipstick kiss next to it, but he’s sure he’s just imagining that.   
  
  
\--   
  
  
It bothers him for a while. Did Chris know those two investigators and send him the email after they had given Chris the message? Or did Chris send it to him and it coincidentally lined up with Zach’s emails? He’s not even sure it is Chris, but the smiley face was too much to ignore.   
  
He does a little more snooping and comes up empty every time. His next bright idea is to write to Chris, but he hasn’t heard back from him in months and he assumes it’d be a dead end anyway. It’s not like Chris has been able to give him any actual useful information other than that one specific time, and it’s been years.   
  
What would Chris know, anyway? Really, he’s probably just as in the dark as Zach is about a lot of this.   
  
Late one night, Zach goes to the gym to let out some steam. He would normally go in the morning, but he’d spent the day sitting at his desk clicking dead link after dead link and his sciatic nerve is acting up.   
  
It’s empty, or nearly so, just one other woman using a punching bag. Zach thinks that’s a great idea and goes to grab a pair of gloves, and when he turns back she’s looking straight at him and he realises he knows her - vaguely, anyway. A friend of Chris’s from years ago, maybe even college? He can’t remember, but her face is familiar and she’s eyeing him like she’s thinking the same.   
  
He raises his hand in a polite wave, not particularly feeling in the mood to have a conversation. She waves back, smiles, and goes back to her workout.   
  
Halfway through his fifteen minutes, she finishes up and comes up behind the bag to grasp it between her hands and says, “Zach, right?”   
  
He sighs, hoping it comes across as just trying to catch his breath, and answers, “Yeah. I’m sorry, I don’t remember your name.”   
  
“That’s okay. It’s Jessica. How have you been?”   
  
And this is exactly the reason he didn’t want to start a conversation. When the only thing two people have in common is a dead friend, the topic can’t stray far from that, can it?   
  
He takes a sip of water and says, “I’m alright. What about you?”   
  
She laughs and says, “I’ve been better, but you look like you’re 3 seconds away from tearing the bag off the wall.”   
  
The bag is still swinging to his left so he props his hand on it to stop the sway. “Sorry. Hope I wasn’t bothering you.”   
  
“Not at all,” she laughs again, “It’s the only way I can get my anger out, too.”   
  
Zach can see why Chris liked her - her laughs come easy and she radiates calmness, and Zach finds it hard to think she’s ever been angry in her life. Then it hits him what she said; he’s about to deny it, because he’s not angry at all, just stressed, but when he opens his mouth the image of Chris flashes across his mind and he realises - he  _ is _ angry. He hates Chris a little right now, and he thinks he’s probably felt like that for a while.   
  
She pats his arm. “Don’t worry. It comes and goes, doesn’t it?”   
  
“It does,” he says. It does. He swings wildly between loving Chris more than he can even comprehend some days to being so angry at him for coming to Zach at that stupid party. If he had just kept his distance, none of this would have happened. Zach might have even missed the entire trial of a person he now knows far too much about and never put any of the pieces together. Even if he did, even if he realised the dates matched and the charges matched, all he would think was that they couldn’t charge them for murder because there were no remains found. He never would have known Chris was anywhere out there.   
  
Knowing that he is, that’s he’s living a life alone, and without Zach, is worse than moving on from his death. That Chris can be happy knowing he’s left his whole family eats away at Zach some nights, the worst nights, when he can’t sleep and can’t turn his brain off.   
  
Zach had spent the last couple years under the impression that he was happy. Every day he woke up and thought of Chris, wondered when he should send another letter or when he’d receive one back, thought about what his day to day life is halfway across the country. He’d let himself imagine what days would be like if Chris could come back to him, or even better, if Chris had never gone anywhere to begin with.   
  
Realising it was all false is a jolt to Zach’s system. He desperately wants to start punching the bag again.   
  
He and Jessica dance around each other for another thirty minutes, alternating equipment and only breaking the silence if necessary. He’d love to be able to say it didn’t affect him, but here he is trying to ignore the only other person in the building.   
  
She leaves before he does and on her way out says, “It was nice to see you again. Take care. Let me know if you need anything.”   
  
“You too,” he says, absently.   
  
Now he just feels like a dick.   
  
  
\--   
  
  
While that encounter doesn’t completely change his life, he definitely tries to keep it in mind in the darker moments. They do hang out, he and Jessica, and they do talk about things other than Chris. They’ve got a lot in common, actually, and for once in the last 6 years he feels like maybe he’s building onto his life again instead of stagnating. His life  _ had _ revolved around Chris, and he even calls Joe to let him gloat about that at one point. But just the once.   
  
He tries to keep up on current events that don’t include arson or kidnapping, he goes to an awards show and the premiere of a movie, and he doesn’t once take out a pen to write to Chris. He also doesn’t receive anything which only hurts if he thinks too hard about it.   
  
He has effectively killed Chris again. Of course it hurts. It sucks in a way he can’t verbalize, but it’s the only way he can imagine himself moving on. Trying to hold onto memories was easier than constantly being disappointed that the actual love of your life was happy elsewhere, no matter what the impossible circumstances around it were.   
  
On the anniversary of Chris’s death every year someone hosts a memorial. A memorial which inevitably turns into a party in Chris’s name. They’ve rotated - Zach did it the first year, then Katie, then Chris’s parents, then a couple other friends, and now, on the sixth anniversary Zach has been nominated again.   
  
He’s used to it by now, faking the solemn face, referring to Chris in the past tense, walking the fine line between happy memories and somber lulls in conversation. Though, this time it’s easier still - it’s been months since he’s heard from Chris. Months even since he was sent that email with the smiley face. He’s spent an embarrassing amount of time in therapy trying to work on that latent anger in a way that doesn’t tip anyone off, because what’s he supposed to say? It’s not like he can explain the situation, so maybe the anger is sticking around longer than he’d like, but Rome wasn’t built in a day.   
  
It still makes him shudder when they talk about that night, the fire lighting up the street, the smoke filling their lungs, the long wait to see his face again, and then, the longer the night went on, the slow realisation that he was gone. They had held onto some hope for a day or two - maybe he had been at a friend's house, maybe he’d gone on one of his solo trips into the desert, turned off his phone and had no idea anything was wrong.   
  
Looking back, Zach realises how big a red flag it had been that they’d never been told of any human remains found. He wonders if Gwynne and Robert and Katie think about that, if it crosses their mind, or if they just think they were spared the details. It’s what Zach had assumed for a long time, for years; thought the information had been lost in the shuffle of paperwork and investigators.   
  
Sitting in his backyard, next to the pool, surrounded by friends and family, he finds himself drifting in and out, paying more attention to the view than to the conversation at times. He’d sold his old house the year after the fire and, he swears not purposefully, bought a house closer to where Chris’s had been. The location was good, the price was right, the house was beautiful. That it was a few streets away from where Chris had lived was merely a coincidence. Since finding him, though, it made it much easier to imagine the potential of their lives, and he repeatedly has to force himself to stop looking up the hill at the empty lot. He can really barely make it out between the trees and other rooftops, but he can picture it clearly - the winding road, the iron gate, the walkway from the driveway to the front door. He can see his new car parked next to Chris’s vintage ones, and multiple dog’s heads looking out the window, and Chris sprawling on the couch waiting for him.   
  
Not long after midnight the yard and house are nearly empty again, and Zach doesn’t particularly want to be alone with his thoughts. He keeps Patrick around as long as he can, offering more beer and cake and a foot rub, but when he leaves and the house is quiet, Zach leashes up the dogs and goes out for a walk.   
  
It’s quieter in these hills than he had ever thought it would be in the middle of a big city, and darker, but there’s always been something peaceful about this neighbourhood. Chris had loved it for a reason. The quiet, the solitude, the privacy, the view. His neighbours would lend him sugar when he ran out, and he’d mow their lawn while they were on vacation. Zach should visit them sometime, a nice older couple who’d loved having Chris as a neighbour. He passes their house and sees the same cars as always, makes a mental note to drop in one day.   
  
When he reaches the gate he can see all the way up, the sale sign plastered with large red letters SOLD. He’s not ready to see someone else live here, or some other house sitting there.   
  
He doesn’t jump the fence like he’s done countless times before, opting to keep the dogs close and looping back around instead. He needs to distance himself from that place. Going up that hill will only cause guilt and irritation. And heartache. Not the peace he once thought it would bring him. He meanders around until almost 3:00am when he’s close enough to the top of his street again that he decides he’d better get home.   
  
The closer he gets to the house, the more the dogs pull and whine, and it takes him far longer than either of them to notice the silhouette of someone sitting on his step.   
  
Zach stops, gets the dogs to sit, and peers down the hill and through his gate, squinting against the patio light to make out any features at all.   
  
It is so obviously Chris.   
  
He has enough presence of mind not to run like a lunatic down the street at 3:00am, but not enough control not to at least jog. The dogs have a great time, anyway.   
  
Chris looks up at the jangling of dog tags and smiles so wide it looks like it hurts as Zach presses in his gate code twice before he finally gets it right on the third try. He wonders if Chris jumped the fence like he’s done at Chris’s so many times, or if, possibly, Chris guessed the code - the date that he’d found Chris in a small town in Texas.   
  


He closes the gate, makes sure it’s locked, and drops the leashes just in time to receive his armful of Christopher, who’s breath shudders in his chest when Zach clasps his arms around his waist. They cling to each other, their clothes, their hair, their arms, until River noses at Chris’s hand and trots toward the door. Zach backs him up the stairs, reaches around him to unlock the front door, and pushes him inside. He never takes his hands off him. Never will, he’s pretty sure. Not now that he’s got him for real.   
  
“I bought my old land back,” Chris murmurs against Zach’s lips, fingers trailing under Zach’s coat and pushing at the shoulders. Zach shrugs off the jacket and brackets Chris’s face with his hands, pressing their mouths together and melting under Chris’s hands, Chris’s teeth nipping lightly at his bottom lip as he pulls Zach down the hall.   
  
“You don’t even know where you’re going,” Zach says, laughs against Chris’s cheek when Chris kicks open a closet door and grumbles about it.   
  
“That’s your fault for moving.” Chris smirks when he opens the right door and slips inside, tugging at the hem of Zach’s shirt and pulling it over his head. He gets his own off, then steps forward, circling his arms around Zach and pushing his hands into the back of Zach’s pants and pulling him forward. Zach bites at the corner of his mouth, drags his lips across his cheek and noses at Chris’s jaw.   
  
“As much as I did enjoy the long beard, I have to admit I like the shorter version better.”   
  
Chris sighs, overly dramatic, squeezes Zach’s ass, and says, “I’m trying to ask if you want to build a home with me, you dick.”   
  
His neatly bundled feelings, all placed into a box at the back of his brain, come flooding out full force. He hysterically thinks about how he’s going to broach this topic with his therapist before he finds himself collapsing onto the foot of his bed, arms still around Chris and pulling him into his lap.   
  
Zach doesn’t have it in him. He can’t do this, the back and forth and the banter and the flirting, so he nods and says, as simply and sincerely as he can, “Yeah. Okay. Whatever you want, baby.”   
  
He kisses Chris’s temples when he grins at him, and he can hear the smile in Chris’s voice when he says, “Okay, so, I think we should consider the vibe first, you know? Then we can decide if open concept is the right choice for us, because at first it seems like the only choice, right, but then you think about entertaining and, like, man it’s so much easier to hide kitchen mess when your guests can’t see it from the living room, you know? So, maybe not open concept, but then if everything is closed off-” Zach shoves him off, onto his back, and crawls over him.   
  
“I know what you’re doing. Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing. You think you’re being funny, but what you don’t know about me is that I get really hot for interior design so now you’re really in for it.”   
  
“Oh god, I hope so,” Chris groans. He pushes his hips against Zach’s, and Zach rolls his own back down. Chris kisses at Zach’s throat, pushing at the waist of his pants, letting Zach up to kick them off the side of the bed and pop the buttons on his jeans, wriggling out of them.   
  
“These are so fucking tight, Pine, what are you even doing, it’s past midnight, no one should be wearing anything other than leggings or pajamas,” Zach grumbles. He’s trying to help pull them off, but may actually be hindering the process because Chris swats at his hands and grumbles right back at him, but he’s laughing and he’s getting naked in Zach’s bed so who is he to complain, really?   
  
He plants himself between Chris’s legs and runs his hands up his thighs, thumbing across his hips and licking him from base to tip before getting a hand and his mouth firmly around his cock. He wonders, briefly, if he should slow down, but then reminds himself that they have their whole lives, now, and focuses on Chris. Chris’s hands are in his hair, gentle and clenching rhythmically against his scalp, and he’s pushing his hips up, and Zach lets him, can’t see a scenario in which he wouldn’t let Chris do whatever he wanted.   
  
Chris’s breath hitches on a low moan, quiet and broken. Zach reaches to fist himself and jerks them both in time, wrapping his tongue around the best he can. It’s nowhere near his finest blowjob, but when he tightens his grip and runs his tongue along the slit and under the head, both of Chris’s hands go stiff in his hair and his head drops back on the pillow just before he spills into Zach’s mouth, rocking his hips up against Zach’s weight.   
  
He lets Chris come down, then he pulls off and rests his head against Chris’s hip and comes in his own hand, feeling the delicate pressure of Chris’s palm on his cheek, his thumb rubbing at the corner of Zach’s mouth.   
  
He gives them time to breathe, settle, before he slides up the bed to lie next to Chris. Chris turns his head to look at him, licks his bottom lip, then whispers into the silence, “You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”   
  
There’s nothing to say to that that won’t end in Zach being a mess. He wraps an arm around Chris’s waist and kisses his shoulder.   
  
He swallows against the emotion - there’s plenty of time for that, too. “So,” he says. “Closed concept, huh?”   
  
Watching the slow smile widen Chris’s cheek is the only warning he gets before he’s pinned with one hand and being tickled with the other.   
  
He’s pretty sure they scare the dogs. He wins the impromptu wrestling match (Chris would disagree) and ends up on top, pinning Chris with his body weight. “Can I ask you a weird question?”   
  
Chris ‘mhmm’s, mostly a rumble in his chest that Zach can feel more than hear.   
  
“Do you like cayenne pepper?”   
  
Chris’s eyebrows fly up. “...Excuse me?”   
  
“It’s just… it’s not something I know about you. It feels like the type of thing I should know about you.”   
  
“I’ve been gone for over six years and the first thing you want to know is if I like cayenne pepper? Not like… the fact that I appear to really enjoy dicks now, or how I survived without a dog, or why I didn’t get a face tattoo like I always said I’d do if I had to go on the run?”   
  
Zach’s cheeks are going to hurt from smiling at this rate. He presses a loud kiss into Chris’s collarbone and lifts his head to look him in the eye.   
  
“The fact that you like dick is unimportant. What I need to know is if you like cayenne pepper. It might be a dealbreaker.”   
  
Chris sighs and hugs Zach tighter. “I’m scared. What if I say the wrong thing? Will you run away?”   
  
“Yes,” Zach says.   
  
Chris takes a big breath and lets it out in a rush, ending with, “Yes, I do, I really like cayenne pepper, I put it in basically everything. I think I’d eat it with a spoon if given the opportunity.”   
  
“Goddammit,” Zach says, and he feels Chris shake underneath him with the effort not to laugh. “Joe was right, the cocksucker.”   
  
“What’s Joe got to do with this all of a sudden?”   
  
“My brother knows you better than I do. I think… I think this might be the end of our very short relationship-”   
  
Chris snorts, “Short, right.”   
  
“-and you’re going to have to be okay with being my brother’s side chick.”   
  
Chris sighs and hums, running fingers up and down Zach’s arms, and finally says, “Alright. If that’s how it has to be, I guess… I guess I don’t have much choice? If it’s the only way to stay close to you.” He pouts and bats his eyelashes and it truly shouldn’t be as charming and endearing as it is. He has no right.   
  
“Nope. But we can iron out the details at a later date, because right now you have a very long story to tell me,” Zach says, rolling off to the side and propping his head up on his fist.   
  
“Jesus, Zach, really? You don’t think that can wait until-”   
  
“No, I don’t.”   
  
“-we get some sleep or coffee or, like, a lot of weed?”   
  
“Oh, I have the weed,” Zach says, slipping off the bed to prove his intentions. “But to answer your question, no, I do not think this can wait. It doesn’t have to be everything, but you can’t possibly sit there and tell me you wouldn’t do the same. You’d want to know every detail if I disappeared for years.”   
  
Chris scrunches up his nose (seriously, has no right) and breathes deeply. “You’re right, but I don’t want to admit that out loud.”   
  
They settle under the covers and turn the TV on low in the background and light up. The dogs whine at the door, so Zach jumps out to let them in and they lie down at the foot of the bed, maneuvering around the extra set of legs easily.   
  
“So. Once upon a time-” Zach hits him in the chest. “-What? Do you want to hear the story or not?”   
  
“Be serious, come on,” Zach says, snuggling in further under Chris’s arm.   
  
Chris sighs. “Ok, fine, but I’m still starting it like that. Once upon a time there was a guy who really liked this other guy but never actually told him. Then he got kidnapped. Then he found him again. The end.”   
  
“Christopher.”   
  
Chris laughs and says, “Do you realise how weird this is?”   
  
“Yes, obviously. I was there too, you know?”   
  
Chris goes quiet for a moment, takes a couple drags of the cigarette, then says, “I’m sorry. Ok, here goes. Once upon a time there was a guy who had no idea that apparently there’s an entire ring of human traffickers who’s sole business model is kidnapping rich people to take their money. Did you know that? I definitely didn’t know that.”   
  
“I did not know that, but I had inferred.”   
  
“Of course you had.”   
  
Zach definitely falls asleep at some point, but he’d swear that Chris did first. He’d watched the light in the window brighten and the first rays of sun peek around the curtain while Chris told him of the day he actually felt comfortable enough to make a friend, to talk to someone who wasn’t in a black suit with dark sunglasses and a prepaid phone. They had gotten tangled together at some point, with Chris tucked into Zach’s arms and Zach resting his chin on Chris’s head. He had fallen asleep to the mumbled and muffled middle of a story as Chris fell asleep, and Zach thinks maybe once before he was this happy, but he struggles to remember exactly when.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The prompt was:
> 
> _"You're supposed to be dead!"_
> 
> _"Yeah. Sorry about that."_
> 
> And this was supposed to be 1000 words max, soooo... anyway we're here! We're done! And they love each other! There is no moral to this story, it is simply self-serving sappiness. I hope you also like the self-serving sappiness!


End file.
